


keep running into walls (that you can't break down)

by littlesnowpea



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, i don't know the warning for 'what's a consistent timeline'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan didn’t understand how ‘something good’ meant ‘running from the fucking cops again’ but evidently, things got lost in translation with the Joker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	keep running into walls (that you can't break down)

**Author's Note:**

> previously posted on ff.net millions of years ago as 'paper china'. this is a completely new revamp of it, but i am the same author. just so we're clear. 
> 
> the rape/non-con in this fic is both implied and off-screen, and nothing about it is described in any sort of detail. it may be canon-compliant, depending on how you interpret jonathan's fear in the btas episode 'lock-up'. my best attempts at keeping them in character was made, and therefore, their relationship is twisted and dark. i don't know if that's a warning, but better safe than sorry.
> 
> title from adam lambert's 'sleepwalker' and loosely inspired by the btas episode 'lock-up'. i had the nolan characters in mind while writing this, however.
> 
> beta'd by the beautiful, talented, gorgeous, and amazing abigail and alexandra, without whom this fic would have never been off the ground. any existing mistakes are all mine.

The thing about Arkham- well, there were a lot of things about Arkham- was that it seemed to be always cold. Summer, when temperatures in Gotham soared to the mid nineties, didn’t seem to affect the patch of land the asylum was on. Winter was the worst, and Jonathan remembered that even from his days working in this damned place that the tips of his fingers would feel so cold he probably wouldn’t have felt it if they’d just fallen right off. 

It was terrible to work in the freezing temperatures and it was practically agony living in them. Not that Jonathan was doing anything remotely close to living in Arkham right now, and if he had his way, he’d never even lay eyes on the place again. He used to say that the first thing he would do if he got out was splash gasoline on the walls and sit back to watch it burn, finally feeling the satisfaction he’d been missing since Batman sprayed him with (way more than he’d ever used of) his own toxin- but as for right now? Jonathan was more than happy to just get away from here ( _faster faster run faste_ r) and he couldn’t spare any thought to what he  _used_  to think.

It was raining, raining hard. Jonathan noticed this offhandedly, the way one might notice that a lightbulb had burnt out or that a dog was barking. It pelted down from the sky like it was on a one-way mission to destroy Jonathan’s life-but no that had already been done, hadn’t it? 

Yeah. Yeah, it had. 

It was raining ice, or was that hail? It didn’t matter. It made everything hard to see, even if he’d had his glasses, which, conveniently, he didn’t. It was hard to see even if his vision _didn’t_ cloud in and out and the  _things_ didn’t stand in his way sometimes. The ice-rain made his feet hurt (he’d lost his Arkham-provided slippers) and he was completely drenched, head to toe, Arkham uniform hanging limply off his body.  
He stumbled, landing face-first in the mud, tasting, feeling, smelling the disgusting odor that was the Narrows (and from what he remembered- not that he remembered much- what Gotham smelt like, too.) He gagged, but scrambled like mad to his feet at the sound of the guards yelling, just barely audible over the pounding of the hail and the gradually growing chant in his head- run run run Run RUn RUN!

He ran.

_He ran down the hall, but it didn’t matter because they were everywhere, **he** was everywhere, and he was choking, drowning on the cold linoleum floor._

He could see his breath spiraling out in front of him- he flinched a bit, remembering hands yanking his hair back, the same mist invading his nose, realizing a split second too late that the Bat-man had no idea what he was doing, had no idea how to dial it back-and he pushed on, feet numb, eyes clouding over and drifting shut of their own accord. 

He fought the sedative they’d managed to stick him with- _just a little longer, Jonny-boy_ \- and his stomach lurched, the ghostly feel of hands pinning his hips down that never quite left making him push his aching legs forward, faster, until he found himself stumbling through the shorted-out electric gate and tripping, rolling down the muddy hill and off the Arkham grounds. Face-down in a puddle, he paused a moment, fighting the urge to inhale and keep inhaling until the water sloshed through his body, drenching everything like the rain was drenching him, shorting out his brain, too, so he didn’t have to feel anymore.

He was so cold.

_He wouldn’t be happy, Jonathan knew, and he would be worse if Jonathan let himself get caught, so it had to happen fast and fluid, in and out quicker than the Joker had done a week prior, and definitely with less fanfare._

It had sort of happened fast and fluid. He was nearly to the entrance hall before the alarms rang out and then he just ran pell-mell, abandoning his plan like he’d abandoned the asylum. Jonathan pushed up off the mud and staggered to his feet, looking back fearfully for any sign of his pursuers. Stumbling forward as fast as he could with the darkness circling at the edge of his vision, he blinked and found himself in a narrow alley, behind a dumpster and some rotting crates. 

He collapsed to his back, face up toward the ice-rain, feeling the mud slide easily from his face and the raw burn of the freezing air in his lungs. He took a deep breath-  _I want to hear you cry_ - and slowly gave in to the sedative, eyes fluttering shut to the image of clothes on clotheslines, dripping wet the same as he was.  
-

Jonathan coughed himself awake sometime around four in the morning. His entire body trembled beyond his control and he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head rapidly at the shadows from his dream that were trying to eat him alive.

It was still raining, and while that meant the search for him couldn’t begin yet, he wasn’t thrilled with his inability to get dried off and/or get clothes that didn’t smell like the starch Arkham used- 

 _that didn’t smell like him_ -

and Jonathan struggled to his feet once more.

He cast a cautious glance around the alley, squinting towards the end helplessly. He didn’t have his glasses- had he already realized that?- and without them, it was impossible to distinguish between real people and the shadows that followed him around, ready to drag him back into his personal nightmare. 

_You’re only having night terrors, Crane. They aren’t real._

(They didn’t understand at Arkham that Jonathan knew which of the shadows were just there to torment him, were just there because he was tormented, and the ones that came later, that followed him around since him and whispered all the words he’d said in Jonathan’s ear, reminding him, aways reminding him.

The ones that repeated, the ones that were sent by him- they were real. They were very real.)

But the only thing moving was himself, and he reached out to the dirty wall for balance, carefully picking his way across the alley, wishing he’d grabbed some sort of footwear. His toes curled against the cold puddles, and he poked his head out of the yawning mouth of the alley. A quick glance up and down the street and he was off again, running because he had no better choice, eyes struggling to help him. 

He slowed momentarily at the steps to a cluttered porch where he could see a basket filled with clean  _dry dry dry_  clothes. Glancing around again, Jonathan crawled as quietly as possible up the stairs, ducking to avoid the dripping wind chimes. He rummaged through the basket greedily, pulling out a thick sweatshirt and jeans that looked like they might give a good attempt at fitting. With his first good grin in a while, he edged further onto the porch, tugging one of the many plastic bags toward him. 

Jonathan balled up the clothing tight, shoving it haphazardly into the bag, and, after a moments hesitation, reached out and grabbed the pair of slippers by the door, praying they wouldn’t be missed. Tying the whole lot together, he nabbed an apple on his way back down, biting into it with a low groan once he hit the street. Tossing a glance over his shoulder, he began running once more, not sure where he’d go, but knowing anywhere was better than there.

_(better than shadows, better than bruises and struggles and god how he’d fought!)_

He flinched violently as a dog began barking in one of the apartments above his head. They weren’t the guard dogs, but they  _could_ have been, so Jonathan pushed the nearest door open and walked through, finding himself in the middle of a dim, musty hallway. 

It was an apartment hallway, and he took a deep breath, letting his heart rate slow- _slow, nice and easy, you like it that way, don’t you_ - and he took the last bite of his apple before tossing the core far outside and shutting the door quietly behind him. Running a hand impatiently down his face to wipe the water off, Jonathan headed up the stairs, feet light on the carpet.

The good thing about the Narrows was that, after his attempt to experiment with his toxin, a fair number of apartments stood empty after the residents moved away. Jonathan considered himself particularly skilled at finding and hiding in them- after all, he had hidden safely for six months a year ago when the Bat-man busted his sale and put the gears in motion to ruin Jonathan’s life. 

The point was, he wasn’t found in his living space, so Jonathan felt ok waiting out the proverbial storm in the relative safety of one of these apartments. Preferably one near the top with roof access, granting him a fighting chance if needed. He hesitated slightly at the very top of the stairs, hand hovering on the door, breath catching in his throat for a reason he couldn’t explain. His fingers twitched against the cracked wood, the rain echoing dimly in the stairwell.

With a full body shudder at the laugh he felt deep in his bones, the laugh that was like a continuous loop (like the soundtrack of every fucking dream he had) he shouldered the door open. He flinched as the hinges stuck stubbornly and goraned ominously, like they knew something he didn’t. The dim, dim light from the sole window at the end of the hall seemed so far away, and Jonathan bit back a low whimper when he saw the shadows that hovered around it, that waited there because they knew he had no choice but walk toward them.

The loud bark of dogs and the faint shouts from the street below had Jonathan jumping, falling to the ground before frantically scrambling up and creeping to the window, not ready (not willing) to believe it was true, true already. He swallowed thickly before ducking his head quickly to glance out the window, and his heart stopped.

The rain apparently did not halt the search for him- _not just him_ , the voice of Scarecrow whispered, and Jonathan flinched because he was right. He was much lower priority than the Joker, true, but still, both of them had escaped in a little under a week, and if this was how Gotham would function without Batman, Gotham was apparently quite screwed. 

 _He would not be happy_  and Jonathan sucked in a deep breath and stepped deliberately away from the window, from the image of hundreds of police officers and dogs that flooded the streets of the Narrows. The pounding of fists on doors, the low murmur of voices just one floor below-  _police, ma’am, we need to search your apartment for evidence of dangerous fugitives_ -tore the breath violently out of his lungs, and Jonathan staggered back, shoving open the nearest door desperately, closing it tight behind him and searching for something, anything to block it with. 

“Get out,” the low voice behind him sounded menacing and darkly calm (so dark, so very dark) and Jonathan’s left hand flew to his right wrist, heart sinking as he remembered that _how in the hell would he have his toxin yet goddamnit_  and he slowly turned around to face the owner of the apartment he so luckily stumbled into. 

He only got a glimpse of another ripped beige uniform, a six digit number printed neatly above the right breast pocket, and a mouth that smiled with scars before something hit the side of his head and he fell to the ground, head full of the barking from the dogs just down the hall. 

He had been so close.

_I’m so close, Jonny-boy._

-

The pain in his head seemed to pulse, agony radiating through his body in time with his heartbeat. It started from the pulsing throb of his temple, and spread over his body, to the tips of his fingers and curl of his toes and Jonathan didn’t want to wake up to the cold stone ceiling of the Arkham infirmary. He wanted to superglue his eyes shut, slow his breathing down, let himself fall to the agony, fall to whatever Hell we was headed to and never wake up.

If he woke up in Arkham, he didn’t want to wake up at all. It was what he promised himself over and over since it, since he decided he couldn’t look at him every day, couldn’t stay here- and if he did, he didn’t want to take one more breath. 

“Doctor,” that same voice- where had he heard that voice? -sounded like it had come straight from a dream he had, or maybe a memory, but it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t answer the call.

“Uh…doctor, are you there?”

No.

“Scarecrow.”

There was no fucking way he was in Arkham then, unless the rule of 'no names but Jonathan Crane' had suddenly been lifted, and he cracked open his eyes to see those same scarred lips hovering a foot from his face. He quickly threw his right wrist up, remembering a split second too late he was weaponless, and the clown-because of fucking course he would wander right into Joker’s territory while trying to escape Arkham’s- grabbed his wrist and twisted it easily to the side, ignoring (or perhaps enjoying) Jonathan’s low cry of pain that he’d tried (and mostly failed) to conceal. 

“Ah, let’s not begin that way, Doctor,” Joker hissed, his voice filled with malice that Jonathan didn’t want to hear. “Calm down. I thought you were dead.” 

He punctuated this last phrase with a hard twist of Jonathan’s wrist and Jonathan bit back his groan as the throb in his head seemed to double.

“Sorry,” Jonathan panted, sure his voice required a hearing aid to understand. “Sorry to disappoint.”

To his (continuing, apparently) surprise, Joker let out a hoot of laughter, the mirth sounding like a combination of pure cruelty and actual joy that only a psychopathic clown could manage to create. He leaned away from Jonathan’s face and released the wrist that Jonathan was sure was at least sprained now. However, given that Joker was still straddling him, his lack of any sort of conception of personal space hadn’t been remedied.

“I don’t know whether to punch you,” Joker’s fingers traced the gash on Jonathan’s temple before digging in, making Jonathan exhale harshly and twist, trying to get away from the pain, the continuing burn in his head. “Or to tie you up and have you help me,” Joker leered down at Jonathan after the heavy double entendre, fingers moving from the gash to his jaw, dragging blood with them as he dug in and held Jonathan’s face still.

It suddenly dawned on Jonathan that Joker’s fingers were bare, that this was a Joker as empty and ordinary as Jonathan felt without his toxin and mask. This was a Joker without his armor of a  _cheap purple suit and makeup_ and he suddenly had a distinct feeling that he wouldn’t get out of here alive after seeing Joker like this.

He didn’t realize Joker had even asked a question until the clown slapped him, hard, dislodging his brain and making his ears ring. The scarred mouth gave the man the eerie appearance of being both incredibly happy and deathly furious at the same time. Jonathan seriously entertained the thought of suicide once more as he swallowed and stared up at Joker, forcing himself to go still and pliant, telling himself it’d be over soon, over either way. 

He hoped Joker would have the mercy to kill him when he was done. 

“I asked, little crow,” there was a lilt to Joker’s words that Jonathan couldn’t decide if annoyed or intrigued him, and Jonathan forced himself to exhale, inhale, exhale, taking comfort in the rhythm. “What in the fucking hell you thought you were doing?”

It took three times and about twenty swallows to convince his dry throat to speak.

“When?” he asked, though he thought he had a pretty good idea.

Joker’s eyes narrowed and he gave a low sound of displeasure, the only warning he got before Joker slapped him again, stunning Jonathan into silence.

“When?” Joker’s tone was one that Jonathan imagined many henchmen hear moments from their inevitable demise. “When you interrupted my nap, you _idiot_.”

“I was,” Jonathan was distinctly aware that his voice was faint and possibly a little meek, but he couldn’t help it- all his energy had gone straight to his muscles, winding them up tighter than a spring ready to snap at a moment’s notice. Joker’s fingers dug into his jawbone. “Just trying-trying to hide.”

“Hide,” Joker said, enunciating each letter like he was mocking Jonathan. For all Jonathan knew, he probably was. “So you come in here and put me in danger to save your skinny little ass.”  
Joker’s eyes raked over Jonathan’s body and Jonathan swallowed dryly, shutting his eyes.

“I’ll go,” he offered, eyes still closed, body so tense it hurt. “I’ll go and I won’t come back.”

The answering slap shocked him into struggling hard to get away, blood filling his mouth from where his cheek got caught on his teeth. Joker laughed above him and suddenly, Jonathan could move, his body was free and a thousand pounds lighter and he scrambled to his feet, hand on the wall to support himself. The manic laughter continued and Jonathan glanced up to see the clown nearly doubling over in laughter.

“You-” and he could barely speak and Jonathan’s already-frayed nerves were static at the sound of it. “You- Arkham has  _broken_  you.”

_“Sssh, don’t struggle, lay still. I don’t want to have to break you. You’re too pretty to be broken.”_

Jonathan stared back at Joker, unable to formulate any kind of response to that, and Joker’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. He stared at Jonathan, head cocked, his grin only accentuating his scars. 

“You-” the clown shook his head, licking his lips once more and narrowing his eyes at Jonathan. “I wanted to see what you’d do and I’d hoped for some of that-ah- gas that everyone is so-” he rolled his eyes- “craaazy about.”

Jonathan still had no response, and no glasses. A headache was beginning to pound behind his eyes and the Joker’s face was blurring out at an alarming pace. 

“But, but nothing! You didn’t even _fight back_ and I wanted to see how long until you would,” Joker stepped closer and Jonathan forced his feet to stay glued to the ground, forced himself to stay still. “And how long until I got to see your  _precious_.”

“I just escaped from Arkham,” the words were leaving Jonathan’s lips without his permission and fear clutched at his heart at the haughty tone that accompanied them. “So I don’t have any toxin with me. It’s hidden, and I was on my way to get it when I got  _sidetracked_.” He finished with a glare. 

_Might as well add a nail to coffin._

Joker grinned again, savagely, and Jonathan distinctly felt like he should be watching his life fly by right then.

“There we go,” Joker reached out and pinched Jonathan’s arm hard. “There’s the good doctor.”

Jonathan felt confusion slowly replace fear and he narrowed his eyes at the other man.

“You were waiting for me?” he asked- demanded, really- and Joker chuckled.

“Well, of course not  _waiting_ ,” Joker scoffed, taking another step forward and Jonathan lifted his head defiantly. He wasn’t an idiot and he’d quickly connected that as long as he was doing this, being assertive, he wasn’t being pinned to the floor or scared out of his mind. 

Not getting hurt was off the table, obviously, and Jonathan’s head throbbed to remind him.

“I was hoping for _you_ , dear doctor. For you and your  _toxin_ ,” Joker smirked and reached out to grab Jonathan’s jaw again, fingers twitching when-what the fuck was that?

Joker apparently heard it too, and scowled.

“They gave up hours ago,” he muttered, releasing Jonathan to carefully look out the window, down at the street. His frown deepened, and he turned back to Jonathan, all traces of smirk gone. 

“You say you have toxin stored away somewhere?” he snapped and Jonathan blinked in surprise before nodding dumbly. 

“Good,” Joker continued after another glance outside. “You have toxin, I have money. Do you follow?”

Jonathan arched an eyebrow and Joker grinned slightly. 

“If you, doctor dearest, would provide yourself with your toxin to me,” and Jonathan followed now, that was for sure, “I will provide the money to leave this city- and don’t tell me that’s not what you’re aiming for, I know better.”

Jonathan dry-swallowed again. He didn’t like this, not at all, every instinct in him was giving him all 156 reasons why this was a terrible idea. But he didn’t have a lot of options right now- ok, he had zero options right now- and Joker was (unfortunately) right. He did want to leave (and never come back.)

_“Oh, Jonny-boy, shh, don’t say anything. Don’t worry, when we’re done, you’ll beg to come back.”_

He hesitated, and slowly nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “I guess. What do you need my toxin for?”

Joker’s scarred lips twisted into an ugly smile. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said casually. “Something good.”  
-

Jonathan didn’t understand how ‘something good’ meant ‘running from the fucking cops again’ but evidently, things got lost in translation with the Joker. The snow made the Gotham streets even more slippery, and his suit jacket- thank  _God_  for the suit at least- flapped in the wind as he cut through an alley and scaled the chain link fence to continue his desperate flee. His mask was soaking and clinging to his face, but he didn’t dare take it off due to the crushed (and leaking, fuck it all) canisters at his wrists.

 _Embedded_  in his wrists, actually, and Jonathan winced as the metallic tang of blood reminded him exactly why this ' _something good'_  had turned into 'hell breaking loose'. His body ached from being thrown into the wall and he was pretty sure his wrist was broken from where the terrifyingly strong hands and easily grabbed and twisted.

His lungs burned -and _seriously_ , this fucker was fast. When had Batman appointed a successor anyway? Gotham was so fucking weird. Jonathan wrote a mental note in thirty-six inch type to ream out Joker for goading this caped freak on at Jonathan's own expense. Stumbling through the alley, he tripped and went sprawling to the ground on the sidewalk outside. 

Of course.

Pain tore through Jonathan as he landed fully on his wrist and he couldn’t bite back the howl that ripped from his throat. He hunched over, vision momentarily swirling, and cradled his wrist to his chest. This was by far worse than anything Joker had inflicted in the last three months, and Joker seemed to delight in dealing out pain (especially to Jonathan).

_“Do you like this, Jonny-boy? You like me inside you, you like how this feels?”_

The voice in his head mocking him was enough to make him struggle to his feet, shuddering and swallowing the blood still filling his mouth from the punch New Batman had dealt to his face. He took off, feet pounding against the snow-slick pavement until the back of his mask was yanked hard and he fell backwards.

Arms encircled his chest and he struggled against them until a hiss in his ear reminded him that his life contained another person now.

“Stop it.”

Jonathan obeyed the clown, turning quickly and following him, inside, upstairs, and into another apartment with the door locked behind them, finally pulling off his mask with a groan. 

“We,” Jonathan said, voice weak from the nonstop waves of pain radiating up his arm. “Are getting out of Gotham  _now_.”

“Jonathan,” Joker spat back. “As soon as we figure out a way past the _guards_.”

He had a point. 

The police had formed a barricade around Gotham that had lasted (impressively) since the week of Jonathan’s escape. Apparently, without Batman, the people of Gotham were a little more motivated to pick up the psychopathic clown and the psychologist who waged chemical warfare. They’d tried a grand total of five times, once a month, to try and get past, but to no luck.

They couldn’t even buy food in peace. Tonight’s escapade was proof of that.

Joker seized Jonathan’s wrist in his usual vice-like grip. Jonathan was unprepared to brace himself, to tell himself to be still, and a scream of pain escaped as he felt his bones grind together.

_“Don’t you scream. Don’t you dare fucking scream.”_

His vision grayed and he barely registered that Joker had released his wrist like it was on fire. He could hear his name being called- no, yelled- but far away, so far away. He felt his shoulder being violently shook, a slap of his cheek, and slowly, the world came back into focus. His ears were ringing and his jaw was clenched so tight it ached, but he was acutely aware of the slow-hot burn of tears behind his eyes and thank God they hadn’t fallen.

“Your wrist,” Joker licked his lips, holding out his hand like he honestly expected Jonathan to submit to that request. “Let me see it, Jonny.”

“Don’t-” Jonathan’s voice sounded strangled and he pressed his wrist protectively against his chest. “Don’t call me that, please.”

Joker narrowed his eyes. 

“Give. Me. Your. Wrist,” he enunciated each syllable deliberately, stepping closer to Jonathan-and therefore into ‘this will really hurt’ territory.

_“Jonny-boy, this **might**  hurt a bit.”_

Jonathan opened his mouth to defiantly retort, but words hadn’t even begun to form before Joker grabbed his elbow tightly and yanked it forward, pinning Jonathan back against the wall with his free arm. It was like his struggles meant nothing (again) and Jonathan felt his whole body tense until he was practically paralyzing himself, Joker’s arm not necessary. His teeth dug into his lip until it bled again, bitter and metallic against his tongue. 

When he felt gloved fingers roughly shoving his sleeve up, a whimper escaped his throat before he could contain it and his face flushed in humiliation. Gulping down air, he willed the flush to fade and his heart rate to slow before forcing his eyes to open and meet Joker’s, to retain some dignity, because it was all he had left.

_“Oh Jonny-boy, why won’t you look at me?”_

Joker just looked back at him for a moment, and Jonathan wasn’t really sure if it was surprise or irritation he saw all over the clown’s face. Joker’s tongue darted out to dampen the obscenely smudged lipstick that covered his mouth. Black paint-smeared eyes blinked, and the moment was over as Joker dropped his gaze back to Jonathan’s wrist, and the tension poured back in.

Joker’s fingers liked to dig. They liked to grab just a little too tight, pinch just a little too hard, bruise just a little too much, all over Jonathan, all the time. He was used to it by now- not that he had a lot of choice in the matter- but he tensed, squirmed, tried to get away, and Joker used nearly his entire body to press Jonathan back to the wall, snarling when Jonathan tried to shove away. 

Joker smacked his lips and swore violently under his breath as his free hand carefully-  _carefully_. Now there was a word he’d never applied to the Joker, not at all. The clown _carefully_ lifted Jonathan’s wrist closer, inspecting it. Jonathan chanced a glance down, and the pain immediately seemed to triple as he saw the angle that was all sorts of wrong and the metal of his crushed canister that seemed to be growing from the skin and the flesh. Jonathan battled a wave of nausea at the sight of it (and his shitty, shitty, luck) and looked at Joker’s face, needing a distraction, even if it might become taunting.

“What the hell,” Joker began and Jonathan swallowed thickly at the tone of voice, recognizing the fury in it like a jolt of electricity that shot down to his bones. “Happened to this?”

“I, I don’t know,” Jonathan replied, voice faint, (everything faint.) “The new Batman, he grabbed me, threw me into a wall, and when I tried to spray him he- I don’t even know.”

Jonathan had noticed over the last few months that the greener Joker’s eyes became, the deeper the proverbial shit was that the unlucky target was sinking in. He’d had the glares trained on him, of course, the ones that spelled out plainly how much Joker was about to hurt him, but this deep green, this furious green that was boring holes into Jonathan’s (basically destroyed) wrist?

No, this green made Jonathan flinch and try to shrink away in some degree of self preservation, because-not for the first time- he was pretty sure he was about to die. He fought against the sea of panic welling in his chest and bit down again on his lip, blood running down his throat. 

“Your other one?”

It took a while for Jonathan to register the question, but when he did, he held it out for Joker with increasing trepidation, chanting “don’t make it match, don’t make it match!” in his head like a mantra. Joker fought with this sleeve too, scowling when the button caught briefly before finally sliding up to reveal the wrist that managed to (mostly) escape. 

“Is it empty?” Joker asked abruptly, fingers running over the toxin canister before undoing the straps and pulling it off for Jonathan to see. 

“Yes,” Jonathan answered, internally groaning upon seeing the huge crack down the middle. “They both are. They’re both broken, too, though this seems slightly more salvageable than the other. For some reason.”

Joker laughed, short and bitter, before letting that wrist go. Once it was free, Jonathan rolled it in circles, heaving a sigh of relief when the joint complied without protest. He swallowed thickly, glancing back down to the other hanging uselessly at his side, blood beginning to drip down his hand to the floor, and Jonathan saw Joker’s eyes narrow again in his peripheral vision. 

“That,” Joker said, eying the wrist with a combination of disgust and, to Jonathan’s once again mounting horror, excitement. “Needs to be fixed.”

“No,” Jonathan said before Joker even got the words out. “Absolutely not.”

“How do you suggest stopping you from bleeding out?” Jonathan had a sinking feeling that he wasn’t going to win this argument, a feeling solidified by the fact that Joker had shoved and pinned him to the floor before his brain tore itself away from the shadows and caught up with the action.

Dear _God_ , don’t let there be any action.

“How do you suggest not letting me die by infection?” Jonathan countered, because fuck it all if he was going down without a fight when his fucking life was at stake- which, now that he thought about it, was pretty much always, but that was beside the point.

“I do know how to clean wounds,” Joker gestured to his face, which did not comfort Jonathan in any way, shape, or form.

“If you’re implying that you were the one who fixed up your face after whatever happened,” Jonathan began, because being around the Joker seemed to destroy his brain-to-mouth filter in addition to it’s unfailing quest to give Jonathan a death wish. “Than I fail to see how that’s supposed to reassure me as to your ‘skill’.”

Joker pressed a hand to Jonathan’s wrist and pinned it to the floor. Jonathan hissed in pain and tried to twist away, to absolutely no luck. His vision swam and he stilled, vaguely aware that Joker had pressed a hand to his chest and was shaking his shoulder but not really wanting to do much about it.

Huh. Jonathan never expected to meet his end by bleeding out in the middle of some abandoned apartment with no one but a homicidal clown to witness.  
-

“Done, done, it’s done,” Jonathan was vaguely aware that Joker seemed to be babbling, and a hard shake to his shoulder did nothing to clear the fog building in his head. “Jonathan, it’s done. Doctor. Doctor Crane. Scarecrow. Answer me, please, just wake up, ok? Wake up!”

“I am,” Jonathan panted. He was so thirsty. “I am awake, let me sleep. Please let me sleep.”

“No, wake up,” Joker was insistent, giving his hair sharp little pulls. “You need to wake up, for me, please.”

The Joker had just said please twice in three minutes and Jonathan cracked his eyes open to make sure the clown hadn’t been replaced by a robot or something. A face, makeup smeared beyond recognition, met his vision, and he slowly sat up, groaning. It was so bright and he was dizzy and thirsty and-ugh.

Realization slowly dawned on him that the pain he could remember with a sharp razor-edge was dulled, dulled a lot. Forehead wrinkled, he looked down at the wrist cradled securely in his lap, and blue fabric was wound tight around it. He looked up sharply, eyes meeting the Joker’s as his senses all came back with a jolt. 

_The chase, the agony, the metal stuck in him, bones grinding on bones, white-hot pain-_

Oh.

Joker held up the bloody canister, Jonathan grimacing and shaking his head. Joker smiled, scars twisting, and sat back, laying the wrecked canister to the side. He sighed.

“I didn’t really do too neat of a job,” he gestured to the wrist in question, sounding completely unapologetic. “But I tried to set it and the bleeding mostly stopped, so I tried to stitch it up and then you passed out on me- after you managed to spill what seemed like half the blood in your body all over the fucking place.”

“I’m sorry?” Jonathan volunteered, and Joker chuckled, eyes still dark, dark green. 

“You’re alive,” was all he answered, and Jonathan managed an unintelligent _huh_? before the scarred lips were against his own and Joker was pressing him back, back, back, and on the floor, wrist shifted safely out of the way. 

Jonathan felt like his body was not his own. He could be standing in the doorway, watching the proceedings with nothing but a clinical eye. He wished he could be outside, unaware of the fact that Joker was all over him, that wherever green eyes roamed over him, lips would soon follow.

This cannot be happening.

_This cannot be happening he has to get away there has to be an escape this cannot be happening_

But it _was_ and what the fucking hell, the Joker has him and his toxin and his knowledge and now he thinks he would take this, too? 

His heart flipped, contracted painfully in his chest when his hair was tugged sharply- hard, much too hard- and his resolve to push the clown off like Jonathan still had self respect was thrown out the window as, in a sickening parody of the beginning of this ‘alliance’, he lay stock-still, limp and praying (waiting, hoping) it’d be over soon. 

“You don’t want this,” the Joker’s voice was flat, emotionless, and Jonathan dimly registered that he wasn’t really pinned, just tense, nervous, pinning himself under Joker’s body and his cheeks faintly burned with shame.

He didn’t answer. If Joker was intelligent enough to pick up the not-very-subtle clues- oh, and the Joker was smart, genius, even. Jonathan had to restrain the eager psychologist in him more times than he could count- then he was smart enough to figure out his own answer to the question.

Intelligence aside, Joker seemed to not really care and the clown grabbed the (throbbing, aching) wrist that had been so carefully kept away and Jonathan sank his teeth into his bottom lip  just in time to swallow the agonized cry that rose in his throat. Instead, his eyes screwed shit, breath coming out in pants, turning his face away like it would somehow stop the pain. 

It didn’t.

It never did, really. 

“Did he tell you you wanted it?”

_“I bet you secretly want me, don’t you? Yeah, I bet you do.”_

Jonathan set his jaw and didn’t reply, forcing his gaze to lock with the Joker’s. The green eyes were slowly turning darker and Jonathan instinctively squirmed to get away, the irony of the situation not escaping him in the slightest.

He knew, he fucking knew, from the moment he saw who’d he intruded on, he knew this would end with shit. He fucking knew it. 

“What else did he say to you?” Joker’s voice made him shudder and Jonathan had never actually wished for an earthquake or something, anything, to force Joker to just let go!

“Leave me alone,” he begged, his voice small and he hated himself. He  _hated_ himself. 

“I didn’t ask what  _you_  said,” and of course Joker would enjoy this, he should have known. He should have known a lot lately. Jonathan gave up.  
“ _Yes_ , ok,” Jonathan snapped, and shoved with strength he didn’t know he possessed until now. Joker, clearly unprepared, toppled off him “Yes. He said that. He said a lot. But you’re wrong, you’re wrong on one thing.”

Joker licked his lips and grinned, faintly maniacal. 

“Yeah, little crow?” he was advancing again and that was not good. Jonathan shoved himself away to sit up flat against the wall, wrist cradled in his lap. “What’s that?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jonathan’s voice was flat and his shoulders slumped. He couldn’t fight anymore, he couldn’t run, that was all he’d been doing stuck in Arkham for eight plus years, stuck with him. “I didn’t say anything at all.”

Joker stopped, actually stopped, and looked at him, head tilted like he was trying to figure something out. Jonathan didn’t even find the will to tense up, just slid down the wall onto the floor and rolled onto his side, pressing his wrist to his chest like his life depended on it. 

“Elevate it.”

“Excuse me?” Jonathan demanded, looking up at the clown incredulously. Joker rolled his eyes, tongue darting out to dampen his lips again.

“Elevate. It,” he repeated, slowly, like he was speaking to a child. “It will hurt less.”

“It will hurt less if you stop grabbing it,” Jonathan snapped back testily and Joker smirked.

“The faces you make are so pretty though, little crow,” Joker cooed, voice sugary-sweet and so, so wrong. Jonathan flinched and a hand settled at his ribs. Jonathan didn’t move.

“At least put it above your head,” Joker hissed, pulling at the arm and Jonathan was exhausted. So exhausted that Joker tugged his arm easily away from his body gently-  another time Jonathan associated that word with that clown, if he wasn’t so tired he’d be taking mental notes. He fought to stay awake, but his eyes were drooping and the throb in his wrist had sharply decreased so he rested his head on his outstretched arm and let himself go.   
-

Jonathan’s head was thick with cotton and his stomach demanded his attention- there was a split second where it couldn’t decide if it was hungry or ready to blow, but it eventually settled down on both. He didn’t quite understand how his stomach could be both, but his brain was fogging up again and sleep sounded so good that his body malfunctions seemed absolutely irrelevant.

“Don’t go to sleep.”

“I will go to sleep if I want,” his brain informed whoever was attempting to boss him around, and he would have said it aloud, too, but the train carrying the words derailed and his eyes drooped again.

Someone slapped him, and really, he would protest if his mouth could somehow form the words his brain was thinking. As it was, it couldn’t quite do that-apart from vague noises of protest-but his nerves seemed to be on fire, shooting pain up his arm- his arm?

He forced his eyes open with a low groan, hand coming up to shield his eyes because when the fuck had it become so bright? He tried to use the other hand to shove himself up, but he couldn’t move it at all. He couldn’t tell if this sudden paralysis was due to the pain that was rolling up in nauseating waves, forcing him to lie still for a moment to calm his stomach, or from the hands Joker was using to hold the arm still and keep Jonathan from using it.

“Let me go,” he tried to say, tried to order, but his voice wouldn’t work and he snapped his mouth shut with an audible click instead, finally meeting Joker’s eyes.

He was pretty sure he had a love-hate relationship with Joker’s eyes, and he closed his eyes to darkness.  
-

It was freezing when he woke next, which was basically a total 180 degree change from the  _boilinglavahot_  it had been before. It wasn’t necessarily a  _good_ change, his brain chimed in as he clued in to the violent trembling that was taking over his body. Jonathan closed his eyes against the headache swelling behind his temples and reached out with the arm that didn’t feel like lead, grabbing and dragging the blanket over him when his fingers brushed the fabric. 

His good hand clutched it tight around him, around the wrist that throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he ducked his head beneath the wool and sighed, struggling and failing to keep the note of misery out of it. He was alone again. Alone in an abandoned apartment that he couldn’t quite remember where it actually was, without toxin (or anything to even come close to making toxin), with a broken (and from the agonizing feel of it, infected) wrist and zero money.

This situation was fanfuckingtastic and Jonathan bitterly gave thanks that he was used to this kind of situation, anyway. 

Jonathan began to mentally scan the rest of his body for problems before he got the strength to run again. He skimmed his fingers lightly over his wrist, wincing slightly at the swollen bulge beneath the skin and swallowing. 

It _hurt_ and Jonathan sucked in a quick breath when his wandering fingers found a large bruise on his upper arm. He pressed in experimentally, and, as if it was some magic button, he suddenly remembered things, remembered right before he’d passed out, and he gaped at nothing, free arm falling away uselessly.

“ _Little crow, can you hear me?”_

_He could, but he couldn’t say anything, couldn’t even move, though he wanted to cry out and beg- who was it? **Joker** \- to make this stop, make the world stop spinning because Jonathan couldn’t take it anymore._

_But he couldn’t._

_“Jonathan, if you can hear me, you’re sick,” yeah, Jonathan knew, thanks. “Your wrist is infected, so I’m giving you a shot.”_

_No, you are not._

_“It’s antibiotics, or so I’m told,” which was not reassuring “I’m going to pick up drugs for your toxin once you, uh, wake up. So do wake up, they’re not cheap.”_

Antibiotics. Joker had given him a shot of _what he was told_ was antibiotics and really, Jonathan was lucky it had been and that he was waking up at all.

He was coming back? Good God, Joker was coming back, with his toxin no less, and Jonathan felt a slightly misplaced sense of relief, relief that he wouldn’t be facing yet another escape alone. He flinched and whined in pain when he accidentally rolled onto his wrist, sucking in a breath and holding it at the sound of footsteps outside the front door. 

Joker?

 _No_ , his heart sunk with horror at the sounds of dogs, sniffing and barking loudly, and Jonathan jumped, heart stuttering painfully. 

God _no_ , he shook his head frantically as he felt tears prick at his eyes and released the breath, swallowing shakily and fighting to return perfect control over himself. 

He would not cry. He would not beg. He would be arrested calmly, with dignity, with no struggle because he was sick and tired of struggling, sick and tired of fearing for his life. He wouldn’t lower himself, because he’d been lowered enough already.

_He was there he was going back to there and he couldn’t do this again._

It didn’t help the frantic flutter of his pulse, nor the cry of pain at the unexpected kick to his ribs (and, by extent, the jarring of his wrist, his precious wrist, that was being carelessly grabbed to drag Jonathan to his feet.)

“He’s ill, easy,” it sounded like Commissioner Gordon, but Jonathan couldn’t really tell, all his brainpower was on fighting the urge to cry and pull his wrist away from the grip that hurt so much more than the Joker’s ever could.

Joker would probably take that as either an insult or a challenge. Or both. 

“Who cares?” fucking New Batman, and then- “What happened to your wrist, Crane?”

The question was directed at him with a smirk, a smirk that Jonathan knew all too well, a smirk that, on a different face, haunted his fucking nightmares, and now Jonathan tried to twist, to pull away, and thankfully Gordon (thankfully Gordon, imagine that?) leveled a glare at the masked man. New-Batman tsk’d, but released Jonathan into the Commissioner’s hands, hands that were much more gentle than Jonathan expected. The Commissioner’s hands smoothed carefully over Jonathan’s wrist, even checking to make sure no further damage had been done before looking carefully into Jonathan’s face. 

“Dr. Crane,” Jonathan jolted a bit at the formal address. “You have to come back with us, alright? The infirmary will help you, patch you up, but you have to go back with us, ok?”

New-Batman snorted loudly but thankfully had nothing further to say to Jonathan. Instead, he addressed the Commissioner directly.

“I’ll stay here,” he announced, and the Commissioner grimaced. “His little boyfriend will come back soon enough and then we’ll have the complete set.”

Jonathan visibly shuddered on the word ‘boyfriend’, and the Commissioner seemed to be restraining himself from lashing out.

“Do what you want,” Gordon gritted out. “But I highly doubt Dr. Crane was with the Joker.”

New-Batman snorted, but Jonathan didn’t hear anymore as the other policemen herded him out into the rain- the near-constant Gotham rain- and away from the one place he thought he’d be safe.   
He tried to pretend he didn’t see the shadows sitting in the back of the police car, ready to re-join him for his personal trip to Hell.   
-

“It’s a bad infection, I’m frankly not sure how he’s alive at this point, never mind how he isn’t in danger of losing his arm.”

If the doctors thought that this was their idea of a quiet, subtle bedside voice, they were dead wrong. Jonathan could have heard them if he’d been in a coma with rock music blasting in his ears. 

“His bloodwork says he had a large dose of amoxicillin, but I have no idea where he got it or how he was physically able to fetch it. He’s very weak.”

“The point is that he’s not a threat at the moment?”

Jonathan’s entire body tensed and he fought the bile rising in his throat at the sound of  _his_  voice, and he forced himself not to get up and run, or worse, grovel. 

“Of course not, Mr. Bolton,” Doctor A sounded offended at the prospect.

“He can barely feed himself,” Doctor B piped in. “There’s no way he could possibly escape.”

“No restra-”

“Absolutely not,” Doctor A hissed. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, our patient needs us.”

Jonathan thought he liked Doctor A. He forced his muscles to relax, forced his lungs to breathe normally and freely, and the doctor’s voices faded away and he allowed the sedative he’d be dueling in order to listen to the conversation to drag him under.   
-

There was light, but Jonathan sincerely doubted it was day. His muscles automatically tensed again, but he forced his eyes to remain closed, forced himself to lay still and quiet, to be inconspicuous.

“Jonathan, open your eyes,” well, there went  _that_  resolution, and Jonathan’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Joker’s voice.

“Are you serious?” he tried to ask, but it came out hoarse and broken and Joker’s lips twisted into a smile. 

“I’m never serious,” he smirked and, suddenly, Jonathan once again found Joker’s lips against his own. Shock settled in momentarily, but then (and Jonathan fully blamed the veritable cocktail of pain medications for this) he pressed back insistently, drawing a low growl out of the Joker that Jonathan wasn’t sure frightened or aroused him. 

He was about to settle on aroused for now when a shadow (no not _a_ shadow,  _that_  shadow. The _real_ shadow, the one that was everywhere) came quietly through the door and Jonathan dug his fingers into Joker’s arm hard without meaning to. 

Joker grunted and his eyes cracked open, displeased, and he pulled away at the look on Jonathan’s face.

“Wha-”

“Isn’t that cute.”

Joker froze, and it would have almost been comical if it weren’t for the slow-creeping murderous look on his face. The clown calmly reached up and pulled Jonathan’s tensed hand away from his shoulder, dropping a kiss that only felt like claiming to Jonathan’s forehead before turning around. 

“I like your taste,” Shadow said tauntingly and Jonathan was glad Joker didn’t see him flinch. “Jonny-boy is pretty nice, isn’t he?”

Jonathan couldn’t see Joker’s face, but he heard the sarcastic huff of laughter leave the clown and he was kind of glad he was on the other side of Joker now, for his own safety. He caught a glimpse of the flash of silver in Joker’s hand and locked eyes with Shadow, fingers digging in deep to the hospital bed. 

“What, little  _crow_?” Joker asked in a faux parody of innocent. “I wouldn’t imagine how you’d know.”

“Now come on, clown, we aren’t stupid, are we?” Shadow was _clearly_ stupid, lounging against the wall and smirking even as Joker casually advanced. 

Jonathan was sure Joker was giving one of his full-teeth smiles and suppressed a snort of laughter at the Shadow’s complete lack of any common sense. He quietly leaned over and began working on the strap of the sole remaining wrist restraint, the other having been undone by Joker at some point during Jonathan’s unconsciousness.

“I wouldn’t do that, Jonny-boy,” Jonathan flinched at the term, but he had dragged Shadow’s attention from Joker, who promptly flung himself at the man, laughing uncontrollably and he yanked Shadow’s mouth open and shoved the knife in. 

“Normally,” Joker began, kneeing Shadow hard in the groin. The man groaned and swore under his breath, breathing suddenly labored and Joker laughed again. “Normally I, uh, give a story when I do this, you know. A story about my scars and people  _love_ it.” 

This was punctuated by a cry of pain as the knife bit into Shadow’s fat cheek. 

“But, you know, that’s a  _privilege_ ,” Joker continued, laughing between words. “And you don’t deserve it!”

Shadow mumbled something and Joker sighed, annoyed, before kneeing him twice more and throwing him to the floor, kneeling on his chest. 

“It’s not my fault,” that was the shittiest display of false innocence Jonathan had ever seen. “If you wanted the privilege, you know what you shouldn't have done?”

Dead silence from Shadow and Jonathan shivered slightly when Joker briefly looked up.

His eyes were dark, dark green. 

Joker leaned in and Jonathan relished the look of terror dawning over Shadow’s face before he slipped the cuff off his wrist and stood, steadying himself on the bedrail. 

“ _You shouldn’t have touched my things_ ,” Joker hissed furiously and tore the knife through Shadow’s cheek before plunging it deeply into the man’s throat. Joker caught the spurt of blood with his hand and carefully smeared it across Shadow- Bolton’s- chest and standing.

“Let’s go, little crow,” he turned to look at Jonathan again and Jonathan took a deep breath and nodded.  
-

“I leave you alone for one night and you get _arrested_ ,” Joker snapped, manhandling Jonathan into the car- where had Joker gotten a car?

“Where did you get a car?” Jonathan wondered aloud and Joker snorted, starting the engine. 

“I robbed a bank while you were, uh, out,” and Jonathan would have laughed it off, but Joker wasn’t kidding and the clown tossed an envelope stuffed with cash at his head to prove it. 

“Jesus,” Jonathan murmured, impressed, and Joker smirked briefly before his face melted back to the uncomfortable seriousness that it had been since the infirmary. 

“How long were you in there?” Joker snapped suddenly, and Jonathan blinked in surprise, but understood the real question immediately.

“Not long,” he said hesitantly, hoping it answered what Joker wanted answered. Joker shot him a glance before turning off the road and slowing to a crawl down a dirt lane, flipping the headlights off. 

“How long was he in there?” 

The question could have sounded casual, but Jonathan knew better, knew way better, especially after tonight. He didn’t call the Joker out on it- he wasn’t _suicidal_ , ok- and instead shrugged.

“Not long,” he replied quietly, not looking at the clown anymore. “I was asleep a lot.”

Joker gave a jerky nod before killing the engine and tossing a jacket onto Jonathan’s lap.

“Come on,” he said quietly, and Jonathan nodded shakily and inhaled deeply before following.  
-

Joker’s torso was nice, Jonathan thought vacantly, but you couldn’t really blame him, he was pretty distracted by basically everything Joker was doing right now. 

Like the teeth scraping against his neck, he could go for that, definitely. Jonathan wrapped his fingers in Joker’s hair and yanked experimentally- the clown grunted murderously, but stopped, following Jonathan’s guiding hand. Jonathan’s heart leapt giddily in his chest but he forced that down- forced all emotion down. It was easier that way,if he did that, and he smashed Joker’s lips against his again with approximately zero grace. 

Joker went with it anyway and Jonathan let out an unattractive squeak of surprise when he felt ungloved fingers settle at his entrance. Joker would have paused at the sound, but he hadn’t really paused at all since the first couple times they’d done this, since Joker pulled him out of Arkham two months ago.

You see how well Jonathan’s resolutions (such as: he would not sleep with Joker) worked out for him usually. 

Instead, Joker just forged ahead, licking up Jonathan’s cheek before sliding two fingers in and twisting. It would have been too dry, too uncomfortable if Jonathan hadn’t still been relaxed and ready from earlier in the morning, at two am. 

He wasn’t complaining, especially not when Joker found his prostate and went for it like a pro, smirking and nipping at Jonathan’s jaw for every helpless groan Jonathan gave. 

Jonathan was not shy- he’d found his own voice months back with the Joker, and he bit back just as hard when he thought Joker was taking too long like right now, _jesus Joker, fucking do something!_

Jonathan was dragged back into the moment by the first long thrust of Joker’s cock inside him, and he gasped because it didn’t matter how many times they did this, Joker was a special breed and he felt fucking amazing.

“Move,” he ordered, the word trailing off under a moan. Joker laughed, flat-out laughed, and Jonathan whined before clenching hard around Joker in retribution. Joker’s laughter cut short abruptly and Jonathan had about three seconds to smirk before Joker obeyed, slamming into him until the only sounds Jonathan could make were whimpers and half-formed pleas. 

He locked his legs around Joker’s hips and shoved them over, straddling Joker and leaning his hands on the other man’s chest. He grinned down at Joker’s incredulous face and slowly, agonizingly slowly, slid down until Joker looked like he was seconds from grabbing Jonathan’s hips and taking over himself.

Jonathan was great at this. He grabbed Joker’s jaw and licked into the other man’s mouth, biting hard on Joker’s lip until Joker’s hips snapped up and stole the air from Jonathan’s lungs. Just like that, Jonathan’s moment of dominance was over, and Joker flipped them back, pressing Jonathan hard to the bed and sinking his teeth back into Jonathan’s neck. 

“I’m going to make you scream,” Joker hissed matter-of-factly into Jonathan’s ear and Jonathan grinned.

“Wanna bet?” he whispered back and kissed the other man again, and letting Joker wrap his legs back around his hips.

Joker slammed into him and Jonathan had to gasp to keep the cry from leaving because now it was a challenge and even though he always inevitably lost, he wasn’t losing this quickly.

“Yes, you are,” Joker said, and five minutes later, he was right.

Jonathan came with a barely-muffled scream as Joker pressed Jonathan’s leg against his chest and hit his prostate again and again, no mercy, before following him over the edge with a shudder and a hard bite to Jonathan’s upper arm. Jonathan felt boneless, weightless, and Joker was heavy on top of him. The other man nosed at his jaw before catching Jonathan’s bruised skin between his teeth, sucking and letting it go. Jonathan grimaced as Joker pulled out and the other man laughed and licked his face.

“There’s something wrong with you,” Jonathan murmured and Joker snorted.

“Go back to sleep, little crow,” Joker said. “I’ll go get food, since you’re too lazy.”

“Hey,” Jonathan protested, but waved at him tiredly. “Whatever. I hope you get food poisoning.”

“Rude.”  
-

“You said getting food! Not wandering along the docks!”

“I said ‘go back to sleep, Jonathan,’” Joker snarled, and stumbled. Jonathan swore violently and yanked the clown’s arm, hard, forcing him to keep his feet beneath him. He wrapped his arm around Joker’s waist and hauled him through the alley they usually avoided, but right now all Jonathan cared about was getting back so he could stop the fucking bleeding.

“You didn’t see the fucking new Batman?” Jonathan’s voice was raised, angry, and Joker spat up blood onto the concrete. “Joker, come on. Hold on, almost there.”

“Jonathan-”

“Up. Now.”

Jonathan couldn’t really understand how, but he had them both through the window and it locked securely behind them in five seconds flat. He shoved the Joker backwards onto the mattress and ripped open his shirt, eying the stab wound with horror.

“How’d you get antibiotics last time?” Jonathan demanded, and Joker laughed weakly. “Joker!”

“Drug stand,” Joker coughed harshly. “But it’s gone.”

“Fuck,” Jonathan pulled the shirt the rest of the way off of Joker and pressed it against the wound, hard. “Fuck.”

“It’s….” Joker turned his face to the side and spat blood out before wiping his mouth and continuing. “It’s ok, Jonathan. It’ll be ok.”

Jonathan gingerly checked underneath the shirt and sighed when it appeared the blood seemed to be slowing. He looked up at Joker, mouth open to tell him, when his heart dropped at the shallow breathing and rapidly paling skin where Joker had looked fine seconds ago.

“Don’t go to sleep,” Jonathan said desperately, switching hands on the shirt and cupping Joker’s scarred cheek. It felt eerie, echoing Joker’s words to him so long ago, but he shook Joker’s face and called again.

“Joker! Don’t go to sleep!”

“It’s okay, Jonathan.”

“No,” Jonathan said desperately, tugging off Joker’s belt and buckling it around his torso, keeping the pressure tight against the shirt-wrapped wound. 

“Joker, stay with me,” Jonathan warned. “Or I swear to God I’ll spray  _you_.” 

He felt his heart racing, his eyes were wide and he shook Joker hard, desperate.

“Wake up!”

“I am,” Joker’s eyes cracked open and Jonathan felt relief like white-hot fire race through him. “I am. I’m ok, I’m fine, little crow.”

“Joker,” Jonathan whispered, pushing the green curls from a for-once makeup-free face. “I won’t let you die on me. How the hell will I leave Gotham then?” Joker flashed a weak smile.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m tired.”

Jonathan bit his lip.

“I can’t stay awake,” Joker warned, and finally, biting his lip in agonizing uncertainty, Jonathan finally nodded, heart dropping fast into his stomach as Joker’s eyes dropped closed almost immediately.

“Wake up for me,” Jonathan whispered, and the silence seemed to speak for itself. He closed his eyes and held onto Joker’s hand tight.   
   
-

“Go,” Joker barely had enough energy to speak, but he tried anyway, struggling to sit upright. Sweat dripped down his face- whether from his fever or the overexertion, Jonathan didn’t know, and he reached out to catch the other man before he slid down the wall in exhaustion. Nimble fingers dug into his upper arm and Jonathan helplessly tried to push Joker back down to the bed, tried to will him down to rest and not spend the energy he didn’t have.

“What are you talking about?” Jonathan argued frantically, pressing the damp cloth to Joker’s face again. Joker gave Jonathan a shove, weakly, but for once Jonathan had the upper hand and he used it to its full advantage. “Lay down, don’t get up. Lay  _down_.”

“Jonathan,” and Joker’s voice sounded so different from his usual manic, angry tone that Jonathan’s heart almost stopped on that alone, never mind the use of his real name. He shook his head, not wanting to hear whatever Joker had to say, whatever he thought Jonathan should do- as if they wouldn’t get out of this together, of _course_ they would. 

“Joker,” Jonathan snapped back in retaliation, and Joker grabbed his arm again, pressing a kiss to the inside of Jonathan’s wrist. Jonathan bit back hot tears and returned the gesture to Joker’s forehead. He felt Joker’s fingers curl around the back of his neck and he sighed shakily, turning his head in resignation.

“What?” he asked quietly, and he heard Joker swallow a couple times before he spoke, voice rough and feverish. 

“I put the money,” he whispered, lips brushing Jonathan’s ear and Jonathan felt his stomach drop. “In the inside lining of my jacket. Take it, Jonathan, and go. Don’t stay here to get caught with me. Take the money and run.”

“No-”

“Jonathan, do it, do what I say. You take the money, get your toxin and get the hell out. Do it.”

Jonathan shook his head hard, reaching back to pull Joker’s hand away. He met the green eyes and pure fear shot through him at the heat he could feel radiating from the other man’s skin. He reached out and smoothed back the damp curls from Joker’s face, trailing his fingers down the scarred cheek. He shook his head again and pressed the cloth back to Joker’s face.

“I won’t leave you,” he whispered, not even sure if Joker could hear him. “I won’t leave you here to die, I won’t leave you to the mercy of the police, I won’t do it.”

“Jonathan, go,” Joker’s voice was devoid of any of the authority it usually carried, and the burning tears pricked the back of Jonathan’s eyes. “You’ve done enough for me, now go.” Jonathan shook his head again.

“Go to sleep,” he whispered, this time succeeding in his bid to push Joker flat to the bed. The other man’s shirt rode up and Jonathan hissed in a breath at the angry red surrounding the gash to Joker’s side, and the lines that traced their way up Joker’s torso and  _God_  he needed antibiotics  _now_  if he even had any chance. 

“Jonathan.”

He reluctantly looked up and met Joker’s green eyes and he nodded, leaning in to brush his lips against the boiling cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, and Joker’s hand fell slack against Jonathan’s as he was lost to unconsciousness. Jonathan blinked hard against the tears he felt coming and his gaze locked on the purple coat in the corner of the room. He swallowed thickly, glancing back to Joker, then to the coat, and he shoved himself up, sliding into the space between Joker and the wall. It was a tight fit and he could feel the heat rolling from the other man in waves, but he had to be here. He  _needed_  to be here.

He rested his head against Joker’s chest, for lack of any other room, and swallowed hard at the shallow breathing that seemed to take over his senses. He twined the damp shirt around his hand (and his wrist, the wrist that Joker fixed) and buried his face into the warm shoulder.

He closed his eyes and prayed to anyone that there’d be someone to wake up to tomorrow. 

**Author's Note:**

> i am obviously the future version of christopher nolan.
> 
> last scene inspired by a scene in the newest bourne movie.
> 
> I am now on tumblr at littlesnowpeafics.tumblr.com, where you can find such exciting things as sneak previews, surprise reclists, small drabbles I wouldn't post here, and much much more!


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